


Training

by wolfy_writing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfy_writing/pseuds/wolfy_writing





	Training

Sherlock answered the phone on the first ring. “If this isn’t about Moriarty, Lestrade, don’t waste my time.”

“We’ve found John Watson.”

Sherlock snapped upright. “You found him? Where? Is he…”

“He’s alive. We found him in a shipping crate, near the Limehouse Basin. An anonymous tip gave us the locations. He’s been checked into Barts. Physically, he seems to be in reasonable condition – a bit thin, some signs of exposure, but nothing life-threatening.”

Sherlock slipped his shoes on. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“It’s a police investigation. There are certain rules. And lately, you haven’t been following the important ones.”

“That thing with Moran?” Sherlock switched the hand his mobile was in, so he could finish putting on his coat. “He deserved it. He’s one of Moriarty’s men.”

“There’s no evidence of that but your suspicions! You can’t just punch out a war hero!”

“I don’t suspect, I know.” Sherlock picked up his keys.“If you need anything, try me at Barts. I’m going to John.”

\---

“John, look at me.”

He didn’t react. He’d learned that from Moriarty. It had been lesson one. Don’t be John Watson. Don’t think of yourself that way. Don’t react, even inside your own head. Don’t feel.

_“John!” the voice had snapped out, fast and urgent in the darkness. He’d turned his head before he could think. He’d remembered too late, and tried to stop himself. But he’d been caught, and the electricity shot up through the floor, tearing through him as he screamed._

_“Lesson One,” said Moriarty’s voice, somewhere above him. “You are not John Watson. John Watson died the moment he was captured. Learn your lesson, and I will mold you into a new person. But until I am finished with you, you are no one and nothing.”_

He’d learned it almost too well. Pretending was going to be difficult.

“John, it’s me, Sherlock. You’re at Bart’s. You’re safe.”

Sherlock, he remembered. The enemy of Moriarty. A friend of John Watson back when there’d been a John Watson.

The target.

“The doctors here are worried. They want to have you sectioned. They’ve nearly convinced Harry to sign the paperwork.”

That wasn’t good. It would complicate things. He needed to avoid being sectioned. He needed to be free. Free and close to Sherlock Holmes.

“If you don’t start responding, they’ll put you away. You won’t have a choice of where you go next. You need to start communicating. Speak or write or even nod. Something to make it clear that you understand. Then you can come home with me.”

“What makes you think he wants to go with you?” asked a woman. Harry, memory told him. The sister. Not useful to the plan.

“Obviously he’d want to go with me. He belongs with me. At home.”

“He needs help!” Harry shouted. “Look at him! Look what your stupid hobby has done to him! He needs proper help!”

“That can be arranged. But he belongs at home. John.” Sherlock leaned closer, sharp blue eyes staring. “What do you want? Do you want to go to a psychiatric hospital?”

_“Don’t overdo it,” Moriarty said. “Don’t try to act normal. They won’t be expecting that. They’ll be expecting someone damaged. A John Watson who’s been taken to pieces and needs to be put back together. Quiet, withdrawn, confused. Play the part. Give them what they want.”_

He shook his head.

“Do you want to go with Harry?”

He shook his head again.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

He nodded.

Harry stiffened. “Is that what you really want, John?”

He nodded again.

“Fine.” Harry turned to Sherlock. “Fine. But you had better take good care of him. If you don’t, you will have to answer to me.”

“I’ll look after him.”

“You’d better,” Harry snapped, “or I will cut your heart out.” She turned and stormed out.

“Bit late for that,” Sherlock said under his breath. “Moriarty got there first.”

\---

“So, I hear you found your doctor. Or rather Lestrade did.”

“He cut me out.” Sherlock nearly spat the words. “He would have found John faster with my help.”

“I doubt that.” Mycroft asked. “I don’t think anyone was going to find Dr. Watson before the informant called.”

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. “You _were_ searching, weren’t you?”

“Every resource I could spare. I do keep my promises these days.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Sherlock stared off into the distance. “He doesn’t speak. There isn’t any injury. He should be capable of speaking. He just won’t.”

“I have the name of some excellent therapists.”

Sherlock snorted. “One of your therapists? Why would I want to inflict that on him after all that he’s been through?”

“Therapy for post-traumatic stress tends to be considerably gentler than therapy for drug-addicted sociopaths who think they've achieved some sort of victory if they can make the therapist burst into tears. I would ensure that he was treated with the utmost kindness.”

“I’d rather take my chances with that Ella woman. She’s only useless.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft stepped in front of him. “Don’t be obstinate. You’re tangling with a remarkable opponent. Refusing to accept my help could endanger you and John Watson both.”

“And your help is so safe?” Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll look after him. I owe him that.”

\---

“Mrs. Hudson’s been in.” Sherlock stood in the bedroom doorway. “She had a bit of a clean. I tried to keep her from disrupting things excessively.”

He looked around the room. It was…familiar. Evocative of memories. Dangerous.

_“Memories are a trap. A lure. They can suck you in, and before you know it, you’ve slipped down so far that you’re at the bottom of a lightless pit again.” Moriarty held his hand. “That’s why I’m doing this. It’s for your own good.”_

_He nodded, and watched the attendant tighten the strap. Anything was better than going back. He had regular food here, and light, and wonders like fresh air and cleanliness the freedom to sleep whenever he needed. Pain came only intermittently, and could be reduced through good behavior. He didn’t want to go back to the pit. He couldn’t go back. He would do anything not to go back._

_The straps were pulled tighter and the discs were pressed to the side of his head. Moriarty’s hand slipped free from his fingers, and he was wiped blank._

_When he awoke, he didn’t know where he was and his head felt strangely light._

_Moriarty stood in front of him, lit up by the sunshine through the window. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty.” Moriarty smiled. “It’s all going to get easier now.”_

“I moved your gun,” Sherlock said. “I wasn’t sure what Mrs. Hudson would make of it. It’s in my sock drawer. She hasn’t opened that since she found the severed penis.”

There was a gun in the house. Sitting in an unlocked drawer. Sherlock had just told him where it is. This wasn’t right. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be clever. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be perceptive. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to see everything. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy. There had to be a catch, he thought. A trap of some sort. He should wait. Contact Moriarty. Confirm orders. Moriarty would spot the trap, and he could start again from a fresh angle. Later. It would, he decided, be incautious to kill Sherlock Holmes just yet. The thought gave him a strange light feeling.

Sherlock was staring at him intensely. “You must be tired.”

He nodded.

“You have a rest.” Sherlock stepped out and closed the door.

\---

“I know you’re wary of accepting my help, but I have something you might be interested in.” Mycroft held out a file. “One of his operatives was a bit sloppy. We managed to capture his computer. I had the potentially useful content printed off.” Sherlock picked it up. “Drugs, smuggling ring – I didn’t know he was in that one, illegal weapons, brainwashing – I can’t believe he’d be that stupid, contract killings, illegal genetic research – he apparently has a weakness for ideas you’d find in a bad novel, an article about a new comet discovery, an article about – what is the X-Factor? Something to do with television, apparently. John will…I’ll need to research that.”

“Still not speaking?”

“Not yet. It’s only been a week.” Sherlock shot Mycroft a sharp look. “He is getting better. Give him time. He’ll be okay.”

“For your sake,” Mycroft said, “I hope you’re right.”

\---

“Going out?” Sherlock looked up from the pile of papers.

He nodded.

“Nice day for it. Better than what I’m doing.” Sherlock rubbed his eyes and let out a frustrated groan. “I’m beginning to think Moriarty planted nonsense in his files to put people off. I mean brainwashing? Honestly? It isn’t worth the trouble. It’s extraordinarily difficult, and in the small number of cases where it actually does work, the effect doesn’t last. As soon as they've grasped that they're out of the environment, as soon as they realize that they’re free, it all falls apart. It's a stupid thing to do when you can recruit an assassin much cheaper. Pardon me.” Sherlock gave an artificial smile. “You’re going out and here I am talking your ear off.”

He wasn’t sure if Sherlock expected any sort of a response. With Sherlock, it could be surprisingly hard to tell. He opened the door and walked off.

\---

“You’re just having him wander around the city?” Harry threw up her hands. “I thought you were supposed to look after him.”

“I am looking after him. John was kidnapped and kept prisoner for months. Keeping him confined now would be the worst thing for him.” Sherlock thrust his hands into his coat pockets and picked up the pace of his stride. “He needs to understand that he’s free.”

“He doesn’t even talk! Who’s going to keep an eye on him?”

“I am. After a fashion.” Sherlock dropped a crumpled bill into a beggar’s cup. “He’s fully capable of looking after himself on an ordinary London street. I wouldn’t let him wander about on his own if I wasn’t sure of that.”

“What if those criminals come back? What if they kidnap him again?”

“That isn’t going to happen. I know their plans.”

“Really?” Harry asked. “Really? Are you willing to bet my brother’s life on it?”

“Yes.”

Harry punched Sherlock in the face.

Sherlock pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to his bloody nose. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand how certain he had to be before he’d risk John’s life on something. He’d much more readily risk his own life, if he had a choice.

Not that he did have a choice. He hadn’t had a choice since the night when Sherlock had gone off alone with a killer and come home knowing that he wasn’t really alone. If he ran into danger, John would follow. The best Sherlock could do was keep John with him, and ensure the rescuing was mutual. Sherlock didn’t see the point of explaining any of this to Harry. And blood was starting to drip on his coat. He gave her a cold look and walked off.

\---

No one seemed to be following him. He’d been going out on his own for a few days now, but he hadn’t noticed anything. There were a few homeless people about, who might be working for Sherlock, but he couldn’t tell if they were taking an unusual interest or not. And Mycroft’s people with the CCTV cameras may or may not have been watching. Two things impossible to avoid in London were CCTV cameras and homeless people. And the Holmes brothers had them both locked up.

Mycroft almost certainly didn’t suspect. Mycroft would have taken definitive action by now. So long as he was free and alive, he could rule out Mycroft. And Sherlock hadn’t shown any signs of suspicion. Safe enough to risk it. He bought a cheap prepaid mobile, and sent a text to the number he had memorized.

BIRD IN THE BUSH. RETRIEVER READY.

The reply came back with one word: STONE?

He thought of the gun in the drawer. He’d verified where it was, but he hadn’t taken it. Not yet.

IN HAND.

HAPPY HUNTING, said the reply.

_“I wish I could be there,” Moriarty said. “I wish I could watch you kill him. Because it will be a beautiful thing. Seeing the surprise, the betrayal, the pain. The one shot he'd never expect. It will be glorious.”_

Happy hunting.

No more delays.

\---

Mycroft stared at the text message on the computer screen. “Anthea,” he said, “I think I may have made a mistake. Can you look in on my brother for me? Now?”

Anthea stood.

“Oh,” added Mycroft, “bring the gun.”

\---

“Sherlock Holmes.” He held the gun out, aiming carefully. Not that he needed to. It was an easy shot at this distance. He couldn’t miss if he wanted to.

Sherlock looked up. “Ah. I was wondering what took you so long. I thought you’d do this three days ago. But it’s always so tempting to procrastinate on tasks you don’t really want to do, isn’t it?”

“This is a message from Moriarty. He promised to burn your heart out.”

“He did.” Sherlock tilted his head. “I don’t think he’s quite succeeded, though. It’s a weakness of Moriarty. He tends to underestimate John Watson.”

“John Watson is gone. Erased. Moriarty stopped him.”

“But you aren’t gone.” Sherlock stood. “You obviously aren’t. I know you far too well. I’ve seen you kill, remember? If you truly believe in what you’re doing, you don’t hesitate. If you weren’t still John Watson inside, if you were Moriarty’s man at heart, you’d have killed me as swiftly as you killed that cabdriver.”

“I **will** kill you.” He tried to keep his hand steady.

“Even you don’t believe that. Listen to yourself! You sounded more convincing when you threatened to strangle me for going through your email. Come on, John. You’re in there. I can see you. You just haven’t quite realized that you’re free.”

He found the gun strangely heavy in his hands. His arm started to droop.

“I know what he did, John.” Sherlock’s voice went low and dangerous. “I read the notes. He is going to _suffer_ for hurting you like that. But you’re free now. You’re here, where Moriarty can't hurt you. And you’re entirely too strong for someone like him to destroy.”

The gun slid from his fingers. “Sherlock?” John’s knees went weak and he staggered back.

“Easy now.” Sherlock caught John and helped him onto the sofa. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re home.”

“Sorry,” said John. He wasn’t quite sure who he wanted to apologize to. The only thing that he felt sure of was that he had failed, and he didn't know who he'd failed.

“You’re not the one who needs to be sorry for this.”

The door flung open. Anthea burst in, gun in hand. She aimed it directly at John. “Step back, Sherlock,” she said. “He’s dangerous.”

“Not to me. Get out.”

“Moriarty brainwashed him and sent him to kill you.”

“I know! I took care of it. Really, can’t Mycroft trust me to handle my own affairs for once?”

“You…know?” Anthea looked from Sherlock to John, and then to the gun on the floor.

“You took care of it? He’s not going to kill you?”

“He never _was_ going to kill me! Moriarty wouldn’t send someone else to kill me if he thought they might succeed! The plan was to brainwash John into making a half-hearted attempt, and then have some idiot with a weapon charge in and shoot him in front of me! If you don’t understand Moriarty well enough to understand that much, don’t try to help. You’ll only make things worse.”

Anthea lowered the gun, a confused expression on her face. “I’m supposed to take him with me if I can take him alive. There’s a special facility that should be able to remove the programming.”

John started to stand up.

“Sit down.” Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder and pushed him back down. “No one is taking him anywhere. Now get out!”

“Your brother isn’t going to like this,” Anthea said, holstering her gun.

“I knew there was going to be something I enjoyed about today.”

Anthea shrugged. "I'll tell him what happened." She walked out.

John bit his lip. “Maybe I should go with her. I…might be dangerous. I don’t want to crack and hurt you.”

“You won’t. Don’t be stupid. You’re not dangerous to me. I know you better than Moriarty ever could, and I know I can trust you with my life.”


End file.
